


Company of Wolves

by necrotype



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/necrotype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU following the Stark children, where magic is far more common, and the noble houses are known for their powers. New alliances are made, and everything changes.</p><p>(rating and tags will be updated with new chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. unrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men of Winterfell find a dead direwolf.

The direwolf corpse unsettles them all. Grey and red against the snow, its gaping mouth crawls with maggots, and its throat holds a jagged and bloody antler. To the men in their party, only a faint whisper of decay clings to the wolf’s icy fur. To the Starks, the stench of rotting flesh fills their noses, drowns out the smells of the forest, until they can only smell death and blood.

“A bad omen,” one of the men murmurs. Lord Stark’s mouth tightens into a thin line as he considers the carcass in front of them.

“There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years,” Theon Greyjoy says, disbelieving even as he kneels on the ground next to the wolf. Behind him, his horse stirs restlessly and snorts mist into the air. The corpse is larger than a pony, massive and slumped in the bloody snow.

“I see one now,” Jon Snow replies stiffly. “I see three others around me.” His lips curl into a grimace. Rot from the direwolf tastes bitter in his mouth, and Theon only sours the flavor more. Greyjoy scowls at him.

“You’re not truly a direwolf, Snow,” he sneers. “Just a skinchanger.” _And not a proper one at that_ is left unsaid, but Jon catches his meaning easily.

Unsmiling, Jon pulls his furs tight around himself to stop the wind from chilling his skin more. He places a steady hand on Bran’s shoulder to stop the little lord from speaking out in anger. The boy is too small, too young to shift, but his blood is a wolf’s blood, and he is proud; like his brother, he does not take to insults about his house kindly. 

Jon glances uneasily at Robb, on his knees by the wolf, solemn. The dead direwolf looks similar to his half-brother; Robb, too, has smoke-grey fur when he runs as a wolf. Then again, most of the Starks have grey fur in their wolf forms. Jon is the odd one, with white fur to match his bastard name, and the red eyes of a weirwood. Likely, his worries about Robb and the dead wolf are for nothing, but he still wonders if Robb can see the similarities. Theon’s arrogant voice jolts Jon out of his thoughts.

“Perhaps it’s your cousin, Robb! A long-lost Stark, trapped in his fur.” He chuckles at his own joke.

Theon’s neck bears the Drowned God’s Gift, as the ironborn call it. The gills of the Greyjoys are harsh gashes against his pale throat, and they flutter when he laughs. Jon rather dislikes the sight. Truly, he thinks it strange that a god of drowning would give his people gills to breathe in the salty water, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Robb doesn’t laugh at the jape. He stands tall and straight, a picture of the lord he will someday be, and he gives Theon a distasteful frown. With a huff, he stands and walks to his horse, which stands a great distance from the fallen direwolf, anxiously stomping the snow-covered ground. A gentle pat from Robb calms it, but it still warily eyes the wolf.

Jon grits his teeth at Theon’s words. It’s well-known in the North that Starks often lose themselves in thick fur, and they forget how to grow their skin back again, leaving their loved ones to wither away with grief. He almost curls his lips to bare his teeth, but he thinks better of it.

“We should return,” Lord Stark says gruffly. His voice is like the scrape of dead leaves on stone, the creak of dry old bones on a cold day, and it leaves no room for argument.

They trudge through the summer snows back to the castle, somber and quiet.


	2. needles and wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya leaves her needlework to watch sparring in the yard. (content warning for slight body horror)

The warmth of Winterfell does nothing to comfort Arya. Her throat burns painfully, and her heart beats too hard and loud in her chest for her liking. With a sniff, she rubs at her red eyes to wipe away tears before they can roll down her flushed cheeks. Arya leans against the heated stone wall and murmurs, “It’s not fair.”

Sansa’s needlework is lovely; everyone says so, especially Septa Mordane. Everything about Sansa is beautiful: her fingers are slender and delicate, perfect for sewing and playing the high harp, and her pretty voice matches her sharp cheekbones and soft auburn hair. Her sister gets almost everything, from talent to beauty to praise, while Arya just has her father’s grim features and a knowledge of sums. Even as a wolf, Sansa is better than Arya; they call her Lady, for her grace and poise, while everyone just tells Arya that she’s too wild a beast to be a proper lady.

_I’m not a lady_ , Arya always tells the Septa, when she is forced to sit down and practice her needlework with Sansa and her pack. _I’m a wolf_. But Septa Mordane just criticizes her manners and crooked stitches, and Sansa does nothing but conceal a smile, too highborn to openly smirk. This morning was no different, except that Princess Myrcella was there to see Arya run away, disgraced and red-faced. Jeyne Poole’s mocking laugh rings in Arya’s ears.

Arya’s lips twist into a frown. If Mother had not forbidden it when she first learned to skinchange, Arya would gladly spend her days as a wolf in the woods, running with Jon under the trees. Being a wolf is better than needlework, and Septa Mordane would never disparage Arya’s stitches if she were a wolf instead of a little girl. Sadly, Mother is insistent that Arya learn how to be a proper lady, like her pretty sister.

By now, Mother likely knows of Arya’s poor manners. If she returns to her room, Arya will surely be punished, and she does not care to be found out. The boys are practicing in the yard, and Arya wants to see Prince Joffrey knocked to the ground. With a final sniffle, Arya pushes herself off of the wall and runs through the castle to the yard, steps echoing softly off the stones.

Between the armory and the great keep, there is a covered bridge with a window overlooking the practice yard. Arya arrives, breathless from running, to find Jon perched on the windowsill with his legs drawn up to his chest. She slows to a stop, quieting her footsteps, and tiptoes to where her brother sits. The sound of grunts and blades clashing below masks Arya’s movements, but Jon turns to her after a moment.

“Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?” he asks curiously.

Arya reddens. “How did you know I was here?”

Jon shrugs and taps his nose. “You smell like a proper lady.”

“I do not!” She climbs up on the window beside Jon and shoves him. He laughs, messing her already tangled hair. “I don’t want to be a lady.” Just the thought of being proper, stuck in a castle while her brothers can run free, fills her with anger. She doesn’t have the patience for such things.

“Besides,” Arya continues, “I wanted to see them fight.”

Below them in the yard, Bran and Tommen attack each other with wooden swords, clunking loudly with each blow. They are both heavily padded, and young Tommen looks especially plump in his armor. They pant loudly, sweat sliding down their flushed faces. Tommen staggers closer to Bran, barely able to lift his practice sword chest-high, but his swing misses, and he almost loses his balance. Ser Rodrik Cassel, stout and broad, watches them closely, a large hand running through his white whiskers. To the side, men and boys alike shout their encouragements, and Robb is the loudest, with pride seeping into his calls. Theon is quiet next to him, wry contempt clear on his face. Arya rather dislikes that look.

“More fun than needlework,” she says to Jon. She eyes Bran more closely. “I could do just as good as Bran! He’s smaller and younger than me.”

Jon takes her arm in hand and shakes his head when he feels her muscles. “You’re too skinny, little sister. You wouldn’t be able to lift a sword.”

“I don’t need a sword then! I have teeth and claws, too.” Arya frowns. “Why are you up here and not in the yard?”

The laughter leaves Jon’s face. “Bastards aren’t allowed to damage young princes.”

“Oh.” Arya flushes, abashed. For the second time that day, she reflects that life isn’t fair, especially for young girls and bastards.

A shout from the yard draws their attention. Prince Tommen rolls in the dust, trying to stand and failing miserably. Bran raises his wooden sword, ready for an attack if Tommen gets to his feet. The watchers being to laugh. Arya feels sorry for the prince. His brother watches from under the shade of a stone wall, cheeks reddening as Tommen is bested.

“Enough!” Ser Rodrik calls out, stepping forward. He leans to help Tommen to his feet, and he sends the boys to get their armor removed. They talk good-naturedly on their way. “Prince Joffrey, Robb? Will you go another round?” 

Robb moves forward eagerly. His skin glistens with sweat in the sunlight. “Gladly.”

Joffrey steps into the sunlight a moment later, and his hair is spun gold under the sun. “This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.”

Theon laughs loudly, and his gills flutter on his neck. “You are children!” Robb glares at the derision in his voice, but Joffrey simply rolls his catlike eyes.

“Robb may be a child,” he says languidly. Even from on the bridge, Arya imagines she can hear Robb’s low growl as he bares his teeth. “But I am a Prince, and I grow tired of using a play sword.”

With a roll of his grim eyes, Jon nudges Arya and says, “Joffrey is truly a little shit.” She nods but doesn’t look away from the yard.

Ser Rodrik tugs on his large white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?”

Joffrey’s face twists into a truly ugly smile. “Is Robb too craven to fight without a blunted sword?” The words are carefully said, and scorn drips off each.

Arya hears a sickening crunch of bones, a familiar sounds she associates solely with skinchanging. Joffrey sheds his human skin and falls to four legs as a lion, and she covers her mouth in shock. The Lannister and Baratheon men jump back, except for a tall man with a burned face, who looks on impassively. The prince has sharp features and a lean body; his fur is a rich and sleek gold, and aggression is clear in his green eyes. A small but imposing figure, Joffrey stand proud. Sunlight reflects silver along his curved claws. He makes his intentions clear with a low roar that thrums through Arya’s body and sends chills down her spine. Next to her, Jon shifts uneasily.

“Why is he a lion?” Arya whispers. “Shouldn’t he be a stag?” Jon doesn’t respond.

Robb jerks forward, curses falling from his lips. He glances worriedly at Bran, but his brother is on the edge of the yard. Beside him, Tommen shivers, breathing fast and shallow. Sweat drips down his round face, and he inches away from his brother, licking his thin lips nervously. Bran appears braver, but he, too, steps back.

Again, Arya hears bones shifting, but Theon lunges forward, cat-quick, and seizes Robb’s arm to keep him from changing. Robb snarls, more wolf than boy, but he stops, hesitant to harm Greyjoy with a change. Theon’s gills ripple on his throat, and Arya can see the worry on his face. Robb twitches, as if his skin can hardly keep him inside. She wonders why Theon holds onto Robb so tightly. Surely, Robb would be bigger than Joffrey as a wolf; he is stronger, more muscular.

Robb growls, low in his throat, and doesn’t take his eyes away from Joffrey. His eyes shine gold, and his teeth have sharpened to fine points, pricking blood from his lips. Theon tightens his grip. 

“This isn’t wise, Robb,” he says, and for once he sounds concerned instead of amused. Robb doesn’t speak, but he straightens slightly and his eyes seem bluer. He licks the blood from his lips, as if the metallic tang will ground him. His eyes stray towards Bran.

“Enough!” Rodrik shouts, and he steps in front of Robb. His face has gone bright red under his white whiskers. None of the prince’s men move forward.

Joffrey lets out a huff of air that sounds like a laugh. Robb stiffens, scowling. The prince turns slowly, pinning Robb with a mocking stare, and leisurely leaves the yard. His men follow him, with Tommen trailing towards the back. Theon keeps Robb locked in an iron-grip until the Lannisters are gone.

“The show is over,” Jon finally says, standing. “You had best get back to the Septa, little sister.”

Arya’s insides churn.


	3. gone, gone, gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight on the Trident leads to loss. (content warning for violence)

The air is sweet, heavy with the smell of wildflowers. The forest along the Trident has a gentle beauty unknown to the frightening woods in the north. Sansa watches her prince worshipfully, heart aching. In the sunlight, Joffrey is gallant in blue wool and black leather, and his curly hair shines like a crown. They ride slowly with full stomachs and heads fuzzy from wine. 

Sansa would rather walk on her own paws, without her mare, but Joffrey seems to dislike her wolf form, and his mount starts badly at the sight of her. Even though the men of Winterfell call her Lady for her delicate nature, most animals are nervous when she wears her fur.

“The battleground is right up here, where the river bends,” Joffrey says. His voice is sweet and pure, in a way that makes Sansa thinks of the handsome knights in songs. “That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know.”

Sansa nods along. Joffrey’s stories are more violent than the songs, where the bloodshed is glossed over in pretty poetry, but he is charming all the same. Over his words, she hears a wooden clattering floating in the warm air. It makes her nervous. Joffrey hears it too, after a moment. “What’s that sound?”

“I don’t know. Joffrey, let’s go back,” she pleads. She wishes she could change into a wolf right here, but her prince wouldn’t like that at all.

“I want to see what it is.” Joffrey turns his horse to the sounds. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Sansa has no choice but to follow, sad and scared.

The noises grow louder, more distinct. The clack of wood on wood sends shivers down Sansa’s spine. She hears heavy breathing, a grunt now and then, and she anxiously moves her mare closer to Joffrey. He glances at her, and then draws his Lion’s Tooth from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather worsens her trembling, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“This way.” They ride through the trees, Sansa behind Joffrey as they weave through the close branches.

In a clearing by the calm river, they find a boy and a girl playing at knights. Their swords are wooden sticks, and they rush across the grass, swinging at each other with laughter on their breaths. The boy looks far older, taller and strong, and he attacks recklessly. The girl, a little scrawny thing in ruined leathers, dodges and blocks most of the boy’s blows.

A familiar smell runs through the air, and Sansa frowns at the girl. “ _Arya?_ ” she calls out, incredulous.

The girl starts, and the boy whacks her hard on her fingers in his haste to turn around. She drops her own weapon, crying out. Prince Joffrey laughs loudly. The boy gasps, wide-eyed, but Arya just sucks on her swollen fingers at glares at them both.

“Go away!” she shouts. Angry tears spring into her eyes. “Leave us alone.”

Joffrey looks at Arya, then back to Sansa. “Your sister?” he asks. Sansa blushes furiously and nods. “And who are you, boy?” His commanding voice drives the older boy with red hair and freckles to avert his gaze.

“Mycah, my lord.” His voice is soft and hardly audible.

“He’s the butcher’s boy.” Sansa can smell death and animals on the boy.

“He’s my friend!” Arya snaps sharply. “You leave him alone!”

Joffrey pays her no mind, leaping to the ground from his horse and holding Lion’s Tooth aloft. He is wild with wine, and his eyes are bright with amusement. “A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight?” he asks mockingly. “Put up your sword, butcher’s boy.”

Mycah stares at him, frozen with fear. Behind him, Arya flushes with anger. The point of Joffrey’s sword presses into his flesh. “That’s my lady’s sister you were hitting.” He presses the sword harder, until a drop of blood wells up around the tip and leaves a trail of red down Mycah’s trembling cheek.

“ _Stop it!_ ” Arya shrieks. Sansa can hear the fear in her voice

“I won’t hurt him . . . much,” Joffrey tells her. He keeps his eyes on the butcher’s boy at the end of his sword while he talks.

A wolf slams into his side before Sansa’s horrified eyes. Joffrey staggers back, roaring curses. In an instant, Mycah runs for the trees, fast as his legs can carry him. Sansa shrieks “no, no, stop it both of you,” but no one listens to her. Arya growls low and deep in her throat. Joffrey’s horse rears and gallops into the trees.

Screaming obscenities, terrible and filthy words, Joffrey slashes at Arya with his sword. The steel hisses as it swings through the air. Arya darts back, but her growls don’t waver. Sansa watches helplessly, almost blind from her tears.

Arya is a gray blur as she lunges at Joffrey, snarling as her jaws close like a vice on his sword arm. She shakes him roughly, and the sword flies from his grasp. The blue steel gleams as it splashes into the river and sinks into the water. The prince lets out a shriek, and his face instantly pales in pain. Arya rips at him, pushing him to the ground until his golden hair is covered in mud. His cries grow more frantic as blood splatters on the grass.

“Get it off, get it off!” Joffrey scrams at Sansa. She is horrified, but Arya has gone from a little girl to a raging wolf, and Sansa cannot help without fighting too. Arya could easily hold her down; Sansa was always the weaker wolf, more delicate and soft than her wild sister. She tries to blink away her tears. Arya acts before she can decide how to help her prince.

With a final growl, Arya jumps away. She watches Joffrey warily, but he only whimpers, “No, don’t hurt me. I’ll tell my mother.”

Sansa finally finds her voice. “You leave him alone!” Her sister only huffs in response, and in an instant she is a girl in muddy clothes again.

“I didn’t hurt you . . . much.” Her voice is cold as she looks at the prince. Joffrey moans, holding his mangled arm tightly. Arya glances at Sansa, her eyes still golden and harsh. Her lips, bright red, shine in the sunlight. After a moment, she whirls around and runs.

Sansa runs to Joffrey. His eyes are closed tight in pain, and each breath is a ragged pant. “Joffrey,” she sobs. “My poor prince.” She reaches to him, tender and gentle, to push his hair from his pale face.

His eyes snap open, and Sansa sees nothing but loathing and utter contempt in the emerald. “ _Don’t touch me._ ”

~

“That girl is a wild animal,” Cersei Lannister says. “Robert, I want her punished!”

“Seven hells” Robert swears. He gestures at Arya wildly, face reddening. “She’s a child! Children fight. No lasting harm was done, Cersei.”

Her face darkens. “Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life. She is a beast, and she savaged your son.”

Arya tenses in Jory’s arms. She takes a moment to glare at Sansa, but her sister avoids her eyes, instead looking at her golden prince.

The king ignores Cersei. “Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I am done with this.” He stands to walk away, hardly sparing a glance to his eldest son, but the queen is not satisfied.

“I will not have my son betrothed to a monster,” she says coldly. Her green eyes shine with malice.

Ned steps forward to speak. “Robert, you cannot do this.”

Behind him, Sansa lets out a loud sob and falls to her knees. “No, no, please, I’ll be good, I promise, please!” She looks to her father with frightened eyes, and when he says nothing, she turns to her sister, still in Jory’s arms.

“Sansa didn’t do anything!” Arya shouts angrily. “Leave her alone!” Sansa feels a warm rush of gratitude to her sister, mixed with shame for her lies. Arya pushes out of Jory’s arms and joins her on the floor. She puts a hand on Sansa’s. “She’s a Stark; you can’t take her wolf away!”

All Ned can do is take his daughters in his arms and hold them. He looks to Robert, his closest friend, his brother. “Please, Robert. For the love you bear for me.”

The king watches them for a long moment, but he shakes his head. “Damn you, Cersei,” he says with loathing. With a wave, he beckons a man closer. The maester is old, with a white beard that obstructs most of his chain. The links gleam in the dim lighting, and they clink lightly with every slow step forward. He pulls out a small vial from his robes, filled with a glittering liquid.

“That is a poison!” Eddard snaps, pulling his daughters closer to him. “She is of the north. She deserves better.”

“It is a medicine, my lord,” the maester replies, slow and somber. “A cure for the affliction which turns your daughters into mindless beasts.

 _The Lannisters are lions!_ Sansa wants to scream. _The Baratheons are stags! The Starks have always been wolves, but we aren’t beasts!_

She looks at her prince tearfully. “Please,” she whispers, but Joffrey only shoots her a look of disgust. Her stomach falls. The queen watches triumphantly.

The maester looks almost sorry as he hands Sansa the vial. She still kneels on the ground, so he has to stoop to reach her. His back protests loudly, creaking and cracking. Even before she takes it in hand, she can smell the acrid mixture. Her hands shake, and she considers dropping it to the floor. Surely he can’t have another for her to drink. She can turn into a wolf, she can run, she can—

She drinks the potion with tears running down her cheeks and her family’s arms around her.

The stone hall echoes with her wails of pain. Her eyes water, and her throat burns. She feels like she might burst from her skin, and then the moment changes, and her skin turns into a steel cage. The potion seems to course through her veins and choke her heart. The pain cuts off abruptly, and she closes her mouth. Wide-eyed, she presses a pale hand to her chest, feeling numb. The hall is silent.

Sansa bites down on her lip until blood mingles with the salt of her tears. She feels empty and cold. Nothing happens when she tries to change into her wolf.

Joffrey watches her with vain and cruel eyes. Sansa averts her gaze and lets hatred bubble up in her throat.


End file.
